Take My Hand
by betweenraindrops
Summary: "John's heart was pounding in his chest, the seconds unbearable, and then, finally, Lestrade looked up, and John could see it in his eyes." When everyone at a press conference to discuss a development in Sherlock's case receives a mysterious text message, John Watson knows what it means, and goes off in search of the sender. Johnlock one-shot.


It was a particularly sticky and unpleasant 5th of July as John Watson stood in the press room at Scotland Yard, shifting his weight anxiously from his position against the wall.

He didn't want to be there, to be entirely honest, but felt obligated out of some nostalgic sense of loyalty, so he'd accepted Lestrade's invitation when the soon-to-be-reinstated Detective Inspector had called him.

Before that, he hadn't spoken to Lestrade in months, but that wasn't entirely surprising.

Even Mrs. Hudson seemed to be more distant as of late, but John couldn't blame any of them.

They wanted to help, wanted to be there for him, but they didn't know quite how to go about it when he refused to accept, as far as they saw it, the obvious: Sherlock Holmes was dead.

For their sake, John had stopped mentioning it some time ago, stopped referring to Sherlock in the present tense to avoid their exchanges of worried glances.

But today, he hoped, might change all of that. Today was the first real step in the right direction, and John was grateful for it, even if it had taken over a year.

Sergeant Donovan -now Acting Inspector Donovan, although John purposefully forgot to call her that whenever he saw her- was sitting in the center of a long table at the head of the room, chatting with a rather stiff-looking Lestrade as reporters and journalists filed in, muttering amongst themselves.

The only thing the press had been told, as far as John knew, was that there had been a ground-breaking development in the investigation into the death of Sherlock Holmes.

Naturally, the room was packed, which, oddly enough, made John feel a little more comfortable. He could almost go unnoticed, just another bright-eyed columnist who found a spot in standing-room-only. Almost.

"You're Dr. Watson, right?" a young man said softly, and John turned to see awed eyes looking across at him. "It is you, isn't it? I knew it."

The man couldn't have been older than 25, and looked much younger than that as he frantically flipped through pages in his notepad.

"I'm Tom. Tom Whitney," he continued, holding out his hand, which John shook politely. "Pleasure to meet you, sir, real pleasure. I've been following the story right from the start. Big fan of your blog, big fan," he rambled, shaking John's hand enthusiastically.

"Uh, thank you," John mumbled as he was released, letting his hand fall back to his side, "but I haven't really written much lately." Not since June 16th of last year, he knew full well.

"No, no, course not," Tom muttered, clearing his throat as he seemed to remember the somberness of the occasion. "I just mean it was a real helpful resource for me, sir. When I was researching the story. I wasn't here…when it happened, you see. I just got assigned to cover this press release when it was announced a couple days ago."

"Oh?" John murmured, a polite inquiry that his inner-Sherlock scoffed at.

"Yea, real surprise to get it, too," Tom continued, undaunted by John's disinterest. "Thought they'd want someone more experienced, but I guess most everyone else is abroad covering other stories."

John nodded, trying to twist his face into something close to impressed. "Well, maybe this will be your big break," he said, feeling some incomprehensible need to encourage the budding journalist, who honestly seemed far too excited to last very long in the cutthroat world of the press.

"That's the plan," Tom said, flashing a wink. "Do you know what it is then, sir? The announcement?"

John shook his head and shrugged, a lie that would hopefully go unnoticed. "Not a clue. I was just told it was something significant."

Tom nodded thoughtfully. "That's what they've been saying. Do you mind if I watch from here, sir?"

John shook his head. "No, not at all," he muttered unconcernedly, and Tom practically beamed.

The corners of John's mouth quirked up as he turned back to watch the table. Oh, to be young. Young and naïve and unscarred.

Scars.

He'd never really thought about it, but that was the best description.

A lingering ache, a blemish on your body, your heart, your soul, and, as hard as you tried to claw it out of you, it endured, unweathered and unyielding.

_'You've got to let it out, John_,_' _he could hear his therapist saying, just like she had every session since the day he started going back. _'You have to let it go.'_

And he did let it out. He poured it out on Sherlock's grave: every thought, every feeling, every word that went unspoken. But he couldn't let it go, because Sherlock wasn't there.

John knew he wasn't there. He'd felt his wrist, knew Sherlock wasn't there on that sidewalk, but he wasn't in that cemetery either. He wasn't lying in a box below John's knees as he sobbed, blaming and forgiving all at once.

Where he was, though… Well, that was a question John couldn't answer, but for a flickering flame of hope he kept alight in his heart- small, but fiercely alive.

Donovan tapped the microphone in front of her, and John's pulse quickened as he landed back into reality with a jolt.

"Please, take your seats," she began, somewhat unnecessarily as there obviously weren't enough chairs for everyone.

"I'm sure you're all wondering why we've invited you here today," she continued, and John's inner-Sherlock (or was it just John this time?) groaned at the cliché of it. "Some new information has come to light about the mysterious death of consulting detective Sherlock Holmes."

John suppressed a smirk as the words passed her lips, thinking of how much Sherlock would love to hear her saying them. Consulting detective. Not 'freak' anymore, eh Sally?

"With the help of esteemed Inspector Lestrade," she said, gesturing to her right, and Greg nodded to the crowd, "we have discovered that, in fact…to the shock and humiliation of many in our department…Sherlock Holmes was…"

She looked in physical pain as she recited the obviously rehearsed speech, and John wondered just what it said about him that he was relishing it so much.

"Not a fraud," she finished, and the room erupted in gasps and clicks and flashes.

Tom turned back to John just then, and John realized too late that he had a smug smirk on his face. Tom merely smiled and turned back toward the show, probably already expecting John had been lying to him.

"It is a great sadness, both personally and for the department," she proceeded, and John didn't feel bad for her even a little, "that this information was only recently brought to our attention. We regret most profoundly that we were not able to ascertain the truth before now."

Someone had done a very good job of making it sound like Sally actually gave a damn, and, as John caught Lestrade's eye, he assumed he'd found the co-author.

Not to be dissuaded by the clear implication that it was not the time for questions, a stocky reporter stood from his chair, his hand raising up before him.

"But, if he wasn't a fraud, why'd he kill himself?" the man challenged, his at-least-three chins trembling with the effort, and John clenched his fists in wishful thinking as he glared.

"It appears at this time that he was under duress," Sally responded, and her eyes flinched for just the smallest fraction of a section.

John had spent enough time around Sherlock to know what that meant. Maybe he did feel bad for her. A little. Only a little.

"Our information suggests that Mr. Holmes was being threatened by the man known as James Moriarty, and that his suicide was committed in order to save many more lives," she added, casting a side-long glance at Greg, who shifted uncomfortably in his seat just as John twitched against the wall.

_'Why didn't you tell me?'_ he had shouted at the headstone the day Lestrade had informed him about the assassins. _'You sent me away! You tricked me! I could've been there, I could've helped you! Dammit, Sherlock, why did you send me away?'_

He closed his eyes against the memory, trying to focus on the flurry of reporters, but it drifted up before him anyway.

_'You should've let me stay, let me make that decision for myself. I would've done anything for you, Sherlock, anything. Why didn't you let me help you?'_

Someone was speaking outside of John's head, and he lifted his eyes, rattling free of the endless loop of things he'd rather forget.

"It is, indeed, a great tragedy," Sally said, and her mournful tone sounded genuine to John. "Our thoughts and prayers go out to the friends and family of Mr. Holmes, who have had to live with, not only his death, but the defamation of his character." She paused, her eyes finding John, and he didn't need any superhuman skills of deduction to know she was sincere. "We are so profoundly sorry," she concluded, her eyes only leaving John at the last syllable, and he dropped his head under the weight of her sympathy.

He lifted it almost immediately, however, as a cell phone beeped loudly around the room.

"Sorry," he saw Lestrade mutter, but the reporters continued thrusting their hands into the air and shouting, oblivious to the interruption.

John, however, was watching Lestrade; watching as he input the code to unlock his phone, hit a few buttons on the touchscreen, and then slumped over in his chair, his mouth going slack as he stared down.

John's heart was pounding in his chest, the seconds unbearable, and then, finally, Lestrade looked up, and John could see it in his eyes.

Somewhere, in a world John was barely a part of anymore, Sally was speaking again.

"It is a terrible truth that Sherlock Holmes is no longer with us," she said, looking down at the paper in front of her, "but-"

A hundred different message tones erupted around the room, chirping and buzzing around one another in a single, electronic song.

John's previously pounding heart stopped.

"It just says, 'Wrong!'" Tom muttered in front of him, leaning back and tilting his phone so John could see. "Do you think everyone got the same one?"

But John looked through him, looked to Lestrade, to Donovan, who appeared to be caught in a trance as they stared back at him with wide, disbelieving eyes.

Then, John's phone buzzed in his pocket, and he knew. He knew.

His hands were shaking as he wrestled it from the fabric, the old phone from all those years ago that John hadn't yet been able to replace.

After hitting the wrong buttons a few times, John opened the message from a number he didn't recognize, but he'd expected that.

_South stairwell.  
Come at once  
if convenient.  
SH_

If he wasn't a doctor, he would think his heart was exploding; a million, miniature supernovas erupting, the pressure pushing out against his ribs.

He looked up, locked eyes with Lestrade, and then ran, pushing through Tom and who-knows-who-else to get to the nearest door.

"John!" he heard Greg yelling after him. "John, what is it? JOHN?!"

He ran past desks and cubicles, the blood rushing in his ears as his breaths raced against his heartbeat. Hearing the low rumble of voices catching up with him, he realized with a flutter of frustrated panic that he had no idea which direction south was anymore.

Just then, his phone shook again, and he realized he was still holding it in his hand.

_If inconvenient,  
come anyway.  
The door by  
Anderson's desk.  
SH_

It had been almost 13 months and, even without being able to see him, Sherlock still managed to know exactly what John was thinking.

Taking a right at the end of the hall, he raced toward what was apparently the southern corner of the building. A pressure built in his chest as the doorway came into view, a volatile mixture of both joy and fear, but he could not stop to think about that now. He was too close, too afraid it was all merely a dream he would wake up from at any moment, and he would not allow it to end without seeing the other side of that door.

Without a thought, without a moment's hesitation, his hand clasped around the silver handle, thrusting it down as he barreled inside, a mess of panting and stumbling. His eyes searched frantically around, and, as the heavy door closed behind him, a metallic clang that echoed up the concrete stairs, he saw him.

Sherlock was facing away from him, looking out one of the long, thin windows that stretched up the sides of the building, but it could be no one else but him. The long, sweeping coat, the brown mop of curls, the thin, towering physique.

Sherlock. His Sherlock. The only Sherlock.

John stood there, frozen just inside the doorway, not wanting to make even the slightest sound lest he scare away the vision in front of him, sending Sherlock floating back into the wind like a startled sparrow.

Sherlock didn't move either, but it was obvious he knew John was there, from the tightening in his back if not the graceless, clamoring entrance.

Never in his life had John experience a silence so loud, a silence that screamed a thousand things, but all over top of one another, blending into a single cry of happy sorrow and angry fear in which nothing could be individually distinguished.

Then, it was broken, and the baritone voice fell on John like both snowflakes and hail.

"I thought, for a moment, you weren't coming," Sherlock said slowly, the sound bouncing off the window he did not turn away from.

It took John a moment to realize what he had said, so lost in the familiar dips and waves of the voice that he forgot to find meaning in the words.

"Oh, yea, sorry," he muttered, surprised he could speak at all through the lump in his throat. "I forgot which way-"

"I assumed as much," Sherlock interjected, and it was just so him, so purely Sherlock a gesture, that John shivered at the overwhelming reality of it. "Truth be told," he continued, a slight chuckle in his voice as he turned, "I would have been a little disappointed if you had managed to maintain your bearings."

John's breath, his mind, his fear, his pain all left him as Sherlock turned toward him, a slight smile playing at his lips, but there was fear in the grey-green eyes.

"Hello…John," Sherlock said softly, one corner of his mouth twitching upward.

John's mind went completely blank as his name rolled past Sherlock's lips. It sounded so much different coming from him, like hearing your name spoken in a foreign language, wrapped in something special and mysterious that made you seem so much more than what you were.

Sherlock's eyes wavered as he surveyed him, and John realized with a rush of panic that he should say something, something to keep that fear away from Sherlock's features, which were likely highly unfamiliar with it.

"Sherlock?" he replied, the question breathy and unnecessary, and he internally winced at how stupid it sounded.

Perhaps Sherlock didn't mind, or was at least controlling himself from flashing his usual 'Isn't it obvious, John?' look, because he merely nodded, thrusting his hands into pockets as he came down onto the landing.

"Sherlock," John repeated, more earnest now, and he could feel something breaking inside him, something he had been building for months. His feet started moving of their own accord, tears searing the corners of his eyes.

And then, it collapsed.

"Sherlock!" John cried, every brick of the wall he had painstakingly constructed crumbling into dust at the feet of the man he wrapped his arms around. "I-I can't believe it! I thought you were- Well, no I-I didn't- But I didn't know- Christ, Sherlock, where have you _been_? I didn't know what to do. I didn't know how to-" He faded off into throat-tearing sobs, clutching fistfuls of Sherlock's coat in his hands.

Shockingly, unbelievably, impossibly, Sherlock wrapped his arms around John's back, a pressure –soft, but so beautifully there- between his shoulders

A gloved hand settled lightly on the back of John's head, inviting him to stay, and he felt Sherlock's angular jaw press into his hair.

"John," Sherlock said in a broken whisper, and the word was so heavy, so all-encompassing, so fully present in a pass of warm breath across his ear, that John collapsed entirely into him, all care for tears and snot and pretenses dissolving as he shook against his chest.

"John," Sherlock repeated more firmly, tightening his grip, and John played it over and over in his head just the way Sherlock had said it. It was an apology, a plea, an explanation, but, most importantly, it was a promise.

It was a promise that his name was safe, safe within those arms and those lips. Safe from nightmares, monthly anniversaries, and stumbling across an old toothbrush or scrap of note paper. Safe from wondering, praying, bargaining, pleading, wishing, and hoping. That single syllable vowed to John that he would never again face such things alone, never alone. And with Sherlock was the safest place John could ever imagine to be, the only place he ever wanted to be.

Sherlock was here, the center John had not realized he had made him until it had fallen out, leaving everything to spin out wildly into the vast expanse of unknown darkness. But now, the pull had been restored, bringing all the things John could not hold on his own back to orbit around them, a combined sun that anchored the rest of his life.

He could not be John without Sherlock. Not anymore.

How long they stood there, John could not say. He only knew that his sobs had now run dry, but he still clung to Sherlock, his face pressed against the cooling dampness his tears had left on the dark-blue shirt as he breathed deeply in emotional exhaustion.

There was a loud bang behind him, and John jumped, twisting toward it. Voices could be heard outside the stairwell door, which was bolted shut with some sort of makeshift device screwed into the wall.

"I locked it behind you," Sherlock explained without having to be asked, the rumble of his voice vibrating against John's chest. "I set them up all through the stairs, linked to a remote. Crude, but effective."

Sure enough, another bang was heard from the floor above, and both of their heads jerked up toward the sound.

John chuckled, reluctantly disentangling himself from Sherlock as he took a step back, wiping his face with his sleeve. "Lestrade won't be pleased," he said, flashing a small smile.

Sherlock grunted, shrugging unconcernedly as he slipped his hands into his pockets, but his eyes never left John's.

Grey-green bored into blue, as if they were searching for something, and John suddenly felt so small and bare, as if his entire soul was exposed for Sherlock's perusal.

"Sherlock?" John asked when he couldn't stand it any longer, shifting his weight between his feet uncomfortably.

Sherlock blinked, his eyebrows furrowing in momentary confusion before he straightened up, his eyes shifting to the floor at John's right.

John thought about prompting him again, but he finally spoke, his voice soft and wary.

"John," Sherlock started, looking uncharacteristically unsure of himself, "what you said…in the cemetery… Did you- Did you mean that?"

As the last words passed his lips, he looked up, and John was struck momentarily speechless by the vulnerability in his eyes. There was a responsibility passing in his gaze, a trust that John was not sure he was worthy of, and he was so desperate not to break it, even though he was not yet sure what it was.

"Mean what?" John answered. He did not ask how Sherlock had heard anything he had said in the cemetery; the question wasn't necessary. John had long since given up any expectation of privacy when it came to Sherlock Holmes, even when he was supposedly dead.

"What you said on- on Christmas Eve," Sherlock clarified, unable to meet John's eyes for longer than a couple of seconds at a time.

"Oh," John murmured, and it was his turn to stare at the floor. "Well, I- I-" He couldn't pull the words through the knot forming in his throat.

He had entertained the possibility that Sherlock could have been listening, of course, but that didn't change the fact that it was infinitely easier saying these things to a headstone.

Now that he was standing here, with his towering height and dark curls and ridiculous cheekbones, John wasn't sure he wanted to admit that it was true, that he'd meant every word of it.

He winced involuntarily as he remembered, wondering how he could ever explain it away now.

_'I'm not sure how much longer I can stay at Baker Street. There's too many memories, too many ghosts. Too much of you. God, Sherlock, you're everywhere. All over that place. And I probably would have moved out sooner, but, honestly, I'm not sure if it's even the place anymore.'_

He remembered he'd started to cry then, and somehow knowing Sherlock had seen that was even more humiliating than knowing what he had heard next.

_'I think- I think it's me. You're just…in me and I can't get you out. I can't get rid of you. And the worst part is, I don't want to. Even if this is all I ever have, even if it hurts. And god, does it hurt, Sherlock. You've no idea how much, and I just wish I could have told you- told you how much I-'_

John wasn't sure if it was a good or a bad thing that he had dissolved into tears at that point. On the one hand, it would have saved him having to finish that sentence now, but, on the other, then Sherlock would have known and probably never come back.

"Yea," John said with a casual nod, but the rising pitch of his voice betrayed him. "Yea, I meant it."

Sherlock was looking at him with a more intense expression than John had ever seen. It was breathtaking and terrifying all at once, and John felt his legs beginning to tremble as his jaw set defensively.

"John," Sherlock said, and John hated him for how persuasive and comforting it sounded, "you know what I mean."

Of course John knew what he meant, but he wasn't going to say as much. Pretending not to know would be a waste of time with Sherlock, however, so John merely remained resolutely stiff and silent.

"John," Sherlock repeated, taking a small step closer, "please."

John had a hard time saying no to people in general, but on the rare occasions when Sherlock managed to use the word 'please', it was impossible.

Still, he didn't need to embarrass himself any more than absolutely necessary, and he didn't want to scare Sherlock away either.

"I- I was upset," John stammered, shoving his hands in his pockets as he looked down at the ground. "I said a lot of things. I thought you were dead, Sherlock."

"No you didn't," Sherlock interrupted, a smirk flickering across his face.

John glared, contemplating hitting him right in his smug face, but he was too happy that Sherlock was here being a prick to hit him for being a prick.

"I wasn't sure," John corrected sharply, and Sherlock raised an eyebrow but didn't comment. "That's not even the point," John muttered, shaking his head irritably.

"Then what is the point?" Sherlock asked, looking every bit his usual, superior self.

John thought he might hit him anyway. He really, really thought he might.

"The _point_ is," he snapped, embarrassment quickly being replaced by frustration, "I didn't know if I'd ever see you again. I said all kinds of things, things I didn't even…" He trailed off, knowing he was about to lie.

"Oh," Sherlock murmured, his hands folding behind him, "so- so you didn't mean it, then? What you said?"

"I don't even remember what I-"

"Yes, you do," Sherlock interjected, and John tried to kill him –for real this time- with his eyes.

"Look," John growled, jabbing a finger up into Sherlock's face in a way he hoped was threatening in spite of the height difference, "you don't get to just- just come back here and start…interrogating me about what I did or did not say at your grave. It was your _grave_, for Chrissake, Sherlock! You can hardly hold me accountable for-"

"Honestly, John," Sherlock interrupted, rolling his eyes in a way that made John want to punch them out of his head. "All I was asking is for you to finish that sentence. I simply want to know what it was you were about to say."

John would like to say it was courage, that he suddenly pulled a burst of bravery from the depths of his being and completely consciously spilled his heart in some planned, poetic way. But the truth was that he was just too furious with Sherlock's haughty expression and patronizing questions to think of any other response.

"How much I love you, okay?" John shouted, not caring if he could be heard through the door; yelling at Sherlock was more important. "That's what I was going to say. I love you. More than I should, more than I even _want_ to, because you're a real bastard most of the time, but I just...do."

He breathed heavily, what had come out of his mouth finally catching up with his brain enough to feel terribly self-conscious about it.

"And then you had to go and jump off a bloody building, and just…leave me here. With nothing. Like you didn't even care," he rambled, gradually fading off as his eyes welled up and his confidence failed.

The silence seemed to stretch on forever, and John wanted to rush to the airport and get on the first plane to anywhere but here.

"I care," Sherlock said softly, but his tone betrayed nothing of what he was feeling, and John couldn't bear to look up.

"I know, you did it to save us," John mumbled tiredly, proud he managed to push back the tears. He'd done enough crying today.

"You misunderstand," Sherlock said, his shoes clicking forward into view against the concrete.

Cold fingers brushed against John's chin, and he shivered at the contact, holding his breath as he looked up.

"I _care_," Sherlock repeated, his eyebrows furrowing as he enunciated, eyes blazing beneath them.

For a moment, the most fleeting of seconds as Sherlock's breath passed against his cheek, John dared to dream that those two syllables meant exactly what he wanted them to. And, as Sherlock's eyes did an almost imperceptible flick down toward his lips, his heart stopped at the consideration that it might not be a dream at all.

"SHERLOCK!"

They bolted apart in alarm, John's previously stalled heart pounding as he stared at the rattling door.

"Sherlock, I swear to god, if you don't come out right now, I'll get a bloody battering ram!" Lestrade bellowed, his threats punctuated by blows against the metal.

Sherlock snorted derisively, and it was so perfect, so familiar, so incredibly, amazingly him, that John found himself shaking with laughter he couldn't quite explain.

A low chuckle joined him, and eventually they were both leaning against the wall, clutching their stomachs as they watched the door shake with Lestrade's growing frustration.

Only when the laughter was sighing to a close did John get uncomfortable again, the weight of what he had just thrown into their already precarious friendship settling onto his chest.

"We should probably get out there," John mumbled, scratching at the back of his neck. "I think he might really go get that battering ram."

Sherlock smiled, a puff of laughter rushing through his nose. "I suppose you're right. Wouldn't want the journalists to miss their deadlines."

John chuckled, and their eyes locked for a long moment as the smiles lingered on their faces.

Sherlock then pushed off the wall, walking past John to stand in front of the door, and John stepped forward beside him.

He heard Sherlock inhale deeply, and realized suddenly that he was probably quite afraid to face the wall of photos and questions that waited on the other side of that door.

"Take my hand," John said gently, extending his right hand out into the space between them.

Sherlock looked down at it for a moment before lifting his face to John, his eyebrows raised. "People will talk," he mumbled, but it somehow sounded like he was asking something much bigger.

John smiled, his stomach flipping as he summoned the courage to reach across the gap.

"People do little else," he replied, pressing his palm against Sherlock's with a reassuring squeeze.

Sherlock glanced down at their intertwined hands for a moment, and, when he looked up, his face was alight with a broad smile.

The last 13 months disappeared in that moment, with Sherlock firmly clutched beneath his fingers, the anchor John had been hopelessly adrift without, and he knew he would demand no more explanations, no more apologies. Everything unsaid passed between them, bleeding into John from Sherlock's cold fingers, and that small contact was all the assurance he would ever need.

So, as Sherlock slid the bolt on the door, thrusting them into a flashing throng of questions, John clung firmly to his hand, and, as Sherlock gripped him back, he knew he was never again letting go.


End file.
